The Untitled Racetrack Project
by also known as LuLu
Summary: Racetrack confronts a figure from his past while trying to devise a future. (Work in progress, will be updated eventually.)


Disclaimer: I don't own anything from the film, just borrowing what's not mine, don't sue me because you'll only get the three bucks I made in tips today at work, etc, etc…

Author's Notes: This is not a whole story; it's only an excerpt from a 'fic I began a week ago. It's going to be a dark, angsty story (::is such an angst whore::), but until I get the core of the plot established, this very beginning is all I have so far. Basic plot? Racetrack is used to using and abusing to get what he wants. When the tables are turned, he finds that despite the betrayal, it might just be what's needed to save him, unless his past and vengeful lovers take their toll on him first. It's a story of love, hate, faith, trust, the games we play, and the masks we put on. Well, I hope no one's hit their "back" button yet (lol) (yes, it's a complicated plotline, but oh, the possibilities :D). All I want from you guys is an honest opinion about what you're about to read. That little blue button is permission to say whatever the heck you want (yes, Vinyl, even if you want to leave me a pointless review XD). I'm taking this down in a few days to take the pressure off myself, but while it's up, _please _review and tell me what you think! If you think there are errors, bad things, good things, any things, lack of exposition and foreshadowing, too much of either, whatever, I want to know _exactly_ what you think!

The orphanage run by the Sisters of the Holy Order of the Virgin Mary was a burgundy brick building that reminded Racetrack Higgins of the color of wine, something he disliked because it reminded him of the hard-drinking father who had left them there. The climbing ivy that had been weeded off the walls five years ago, he remembered, right before that harsh April storm, was now starting to regenerate, trying to blindly grope its way towards the dark, flat roof. The outside he knew well. And though he could not see it, he remembered every room, every crevice of the inside just as well. But despite everything that had happened to him here, standing on the front steps made him feel like a stranger. It had been five years, five years without a hello or even a letter to the sisters and the orphans, five years without a single glance behind.

Now, he was looking forward, right into the front door, with its peeling, discoloring white paint that the sisters had never found the time to repaint. He raised his clenched fist, held it in mid-air for a moment, and then let it drop. Before doing anything else, he removed his hat. The sisters hated hats. He then raised his fist again and knocked once, firmly. And then he waited.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" he heard from inside, mixed with the faint yells and laughter of children. "Children, away from the door!" Racetrack shivered. To him, the voice was like a ghost from the past. For a moment he nearly lost his nerve, but the door opened before he could slip away.

"Yes?" asked the woman, dressed in complete, pristine nun's habit, who answered. Her thin, wiry frame was accompanied by an equally thin face, with high cheekbones and a long nose, almost giving her a slightly horsey appearance. When she saw Racetrack, her eyes grew wide in surprise.

"Leon Higgins!" she exclaimed.

"H-heya, Sis," Racetrack said sheepishly, wringing his hat in his hands.

"Sister, Leon," she corrected sharply. She behaved as if not a day had passed since she last saw him, pretending as if time did not exist. "How many times do I have to tell you, it's not 'Sis'?"

Racetrack decided to play along with this pretending game. "A million times, Sis."

"A million and one, Leon," the Sister frowned, tugging him on the ear as if he was a child. She laughed lightly and enveloped him in a tight hug. "You never learn, do you?" she asked as she released him.

"No, Sistah Giovanna, I don't," Racetrack admitted. "But youse still lookin' like youse just stepped outta the convent, even aftah –"

"--even after fifteen years, right Leon?" she finished, the corners of her mouth tugged into what could have been called a smirk. "I can't believe you can say that with a straight face." Sister Giovanna was a woman in the second half of her thirties; still plainly beautiful and untouched by man, all by the grace of God. Now, she held Racetrack at arm's length, shorter that the distance Racetrack held God away from him. "Let me take a look at you."

"I'se still an Italian beanpole," he mumbled.

"You're healthy," Sister Giovanna replied. "That's what matters. Come in, come in."

She stepped aside and Racetrack stepped inside. The front hall looked just the same as he'd left it five years ago during the night, he noticed. The orphanage and its sisters and mother superior, still untouched by time. And then there was him, five years older, five years wiser, five years stuck on the ever-changing streets.

"Look familiar, Leon?" she smiled, noticing the surprised gaze he cast on his surroundings.

"A little," he admitted. 

"Come into the kitchen," Sister Giovanna said mildly, as if she knew what was on his mind. "We can talk there."

"What about the kids? I hoid 'em from outside."

"Sister Aloysia can handle them."

"Who?" Racetrack asked, following her into the kitchen.

"One of our younger recruits out of the convent. You wouldn't know her. She came in about four years ago."

After he was long gone. He got the hint. "…oh."

"There you go again, acting like a wounded puppy," she noted with the hint of a smile. "Sit down, Leon." He did so, and she went over to the stove. "Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked as she picked up a kettle. "I've found that it's just what I need some afternoons."

"No t'anks, Sis."

Sister Giovanna sat down opposite him. "Well, you think about it while the water boils."

Racetrack blinked. For the first tine, she had not corrected his usage of the word 'Sis.' He opened his mouth to speak, but the smile on Sister Giovanna's face told him that he would not get an answer out of her.

"How is the newsboy life, Leon?" she asked, her elbows on the table to support the bridge her hands formed and the chin that rested on them. "What is it that they call it again?"

"Carryin' the bannah." He replied like it was a reflex. "Sistah, how'd youse know I'se a newsie?"

"A few of your old friends saw you by Horace Greeley's statue with the other newsboys a few times and mentioned it to me in passing."

"Who?"

"It doesn't matter, Leon. We both know that."

They also both knew who it had been that had seen Racetrack, but neither would say it.

"Listen, Sistah," Racetrack said frankly, "I'se gotta level witcha. No one's called me Leon fer yeahs. It's makin' me a little uncomfortable."

"Because it reminds you too much of your childhood?" Sister Giovanna asked. Racetrack became stony and said nothing; she sighed, traces of anger beginning to filter into her voice. "I should have guessed it in the first place…you don't come by for all these years, so of course you're going by a new name. What do those newsies call you? Let me guess. Poker? Gambler?"

"Racetrack."

"Of course." She smiled derisively. "You've always been a fan of the horses, more than anything else…I remember you'd scrimp pennies from the Church collection pail for bets at Sheepshead, even at twelve." 

"Sistah, stop, please," Racetrack said. He'd forgotten how easily she could change moods. But Sister Giovanna continued, as if he had never tried to interrupt her at all.

"And when those bookies came looking for you at thirteen, and again at fourteen…and when you tried to thieve your way out of debt by cheating the younger children out of their savings in impromptu poker games. I should have remembered all that before taking you into our house again, acting like nothing had happened."

"Sistah…I'se changed. I really have. I jist need a little time ta get back on me feet."

"And a little money too, I'm guessing. You said you'd changed the last time the bookies came after you, don't think I've forgotten."

"It's diff'rent dis time. It really is."

"You owe them less this time?" Racetrack looked down at his feet. "More? Oh, _Leon_," she sighed unhappily. "Leon, what are you doing living this life?"

"It's the life I chose fer meself," he muttered.

"You're willing to live this life until you die?" No answer. "Leon, you're only nineteen! You're not backed into a corner."

"I is if da Delancey brudders or whoevah's sent ta find me decides ta break both me legs."

"There's always a way out, Leon."

"Dis from da dame who won't help me."

Sister Giovanna reached across the table and slapped Racetrack as hard as she could. She left the red marks of her hand behind on his cheek.

"First of all, Leon Angelo Higgins, I am _not_ a 'dame', as you so eloquently put it," she hissed heatedly. "Didn't we teach you better than to talk like that?"

"Five yeahs on the streets makes ya ferget a lot, Sis," he mumbled, cradling his cheek.

"Don't think I won't slap you again for backtalk, Leon, do you understand me?" Racetrack nodded. "Good. You seem to be unable to comprehend _why_ I will not let this order help you. Am I right, Leon?" Another nod. "If we help you now, even if it's only a single penny, you will crawl back every time you find yourself in a gutter. We don't need that when we're already hard on our luck. And the children here don't need that either."

"Sis, _please_," he begged. "_Please_. I needs all the help I can get."

"Then turn to God, for He will always be there in your time of need," Sister Giovanna told him simply. "He will provide."

The pleasant poetry of the Bible he remembered from his youth, he noted in his mind, but he dare not speak this thought aloud, for fear of another slap. Nineteen years old and he quivered at the feet of a nun. The boys would laugh 'til they cried if they knew about it. All he could let out was a simple, "T'anks, Sistah" before he stood.

"If you want to pray, come see me again, Leon," Sister Giovanna said slowly and carefully. "The door is always open to those who do not turn their backs on Him."

Racetrack nodded and began to fix his hat back on his head. "I undahstand, Sis."

"Are you sure you don't want a cup of tea?" she asked as he headed towards the door. "The water's ready."

"I'se shoah, Sistah, T'anks fer the offah, though. Both of 'em."

Sister Giovanna's "Goodbye" was shut out to Racetrack's ears by the shutting of the orphanage's aged front door with its peeling white paint. 

According to Sister Giovanna, all he needed was a miracle, Racetrack considered as he leapt off the stoop and stood at the curb. But why would God give a miracle to someone as undeserving as him? He was a liar, a gambler, a cheater, a thief, and an atheist to boot. No miracles were allowed for people such as him, not even if they had been reared by the kind hearts and hands of nuns. It would be another night of sleeping on the streets for him.

Little did he know, at Sheepshead Bay a miracle was waiting for Racetrack Higgins, but at a substantial price.

Now remember, click that nice blue button and tell me anything you want to :D 


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